As all men are, we are weak: the feral perfumes of our loins unabated by our greater muse, intuition, with our faces for all seasons like so many pockets of change. We are of the ways of the old masters: carvers, molders, melders of slab and stroke--the curiosity seekers of our covenant's yin . . . that great esoteric patchwork of the sexes: confounding we progeny from cave to grave. On mornings when we can still come to, blessèd be our alms of matrimony, hormones, madness: for blessèd are the contrite— but remember the shadow: it gives us light.
About the Poet:
Tyler Wettig resides in Michigan. His latest chapbook is The Adult Table (Zetataurus, 2018).